I died on battlefields, the valleys and hills, where I was called to prove my worth.
I died in my sleep when the missile hit my bedroom in the middle of numerous nights.
I died in the van with twenty-one evacuees who lost their homes and then their lives.
I died with every burnt-down harvest, every poisoned dolphin, every broken tree...
I died so many times and only cos I wasn’t there, then, I may still be,
I may keep my cosy routines and hide behind the may-have-beens.
It’s only luck, a Russian bloody roulette, that it wasn’t me who fell.
But my people say, we die, die every day
For all who bid us farewell.